Page 5 of Omega in Love
It's not peace, not really, but it's something close. Something adjacent to calm. The closest I get these days.
By the time we're home, everything falls into place like it always does. A choreographed dance of care that none of us acknowledge openly.
Dante cooks. Salmon and steamed broccoli for lunch, protein smoothie on the side. His movements in the kitchen are precise, economical. No wasted motion, no unnecessary flourishes. Just creating fuel, prepared with the same focused intensity he brings to everything.
Levi lines up my meds on a paper towel, next to a glass of filtered water. The exact temperature I prefer, with two ice cubes, never more. He doesn't say anything. He never has to. His eyes say enough, watchful, concerned, checking to see if I'll resist today or accept what I need.
Hero goes over my schedule for the rest of the day. My meetings, calls, a quick gym session if I'm up for it. He sounds like he's reading a list of inventory. No emotion—never any fucking emotions, just information—but I see how his fingers linger on the tablet, how he's arranged everything to minimize my exposure, maximize my recovery time between obligations.
No one asks how I slept. No one mentions the nightmare. No one talks about how I took Hero's shirt from his room, or how it somehow ended up tangled in my sheets, clutched against my chest like a lifeline three nights ago.
I can feel it, in the extra slice of toast, the specific smoothie blend I prefer, the way Levi watched until I took the pills with my own hands. In the way Dante's cooking has extra protein today, fuel for a body that burned through its reserves fighting shadows all night. In the way Hero stands just a little closer than usual, his body angled toward mine even as he pretends to focus on the schedule.
They don't ask. They just know. I think that's why I'm still standing. Why I haven't completely shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, like the gold leaf that adorned my skin this morning.
I finish lunch in silence, staring out at the skyline. The glass wall in the kitchen offers a perfect view of Los Angeles, clear skies, distant haze, a city sprawling endlessly into itself. From up here, everything looks small, manageable. From up here I can almost pretend I'm not afraid of what waits below.
I used to think this house was a cage. A beautiful prison with its sleek lines and minimalist design, its security systems and panic rooms.
Now I realize it's a fortress. A sanctuary. The only place where I can breathe without counting exits, without scanning faces, without flinching at sudden movements.
They're not just guards stationed at the gates. They're something else. Something more.
Something I'm afraid to name, because naming it makes it real, and real things can be taken away. Real things can hurt when they leave. Real things can break you worse than fists ever could.
I think about the way Levi always stands near the windows, like he's watching the horizon for threats. How his massive frame somehow makes me feel sheltered rather than trapped. How his dimples appear when he thinks I'm not looking, small victories when I eat without prompting or sleep through the night.
How Dante locks every door twice, even when he thinks I'm not looking. How he tests the security system religiously, how his fingers hover near his weapon whenever a car slows down outside, how he positions himself between me and any potential danger without seeming to think about it.
How Hero moves through my life like gravity, subtle, invisible, constant. How he memorizes my preferences without being told, anticipates my needs before I recognize them myself, watches me with those hazel eyes that see too much and ask for nothing.
I don't know when they stopped being bodyguards and started becoming. . .mine. When the professional distance collapsed into something intimate and unspoken. When duty transformed into devotion.
I track the change in small moments, when Dante started bringing me coffee exactly how I like it without asking, when Levi began leaving his sweater draped over the back of my chair on chilly mornings, when Hero started recognizing my nightmares before I'd even fully woken from them. Little erosions in the wall of professionalism, tiny breaches in the fortress of formality.
I don't know when I started relying on them the way I used to rely on my own two feet. When their presence became as necessary as breathing, as natural as my heartbeat. When the sound of Levi's laughter in the kitchen became the soundtrack to my mornings, when Dante's methodical checking of locks became the lullaby that allowed me to sleep, when Hero's quiet humming as he works became the white noise that calms my racing thoughts.
Last night, when I said thank you, when I whispered it into the darkness after Hero climbed in bed beside me. Crossing all the lines and barriers he's placed between us. The way he hesitated, just for a moment, before settling beside me, careful not to touch me until I moved closer. The way his breathing changed when I did. The scent of sandalwood wrapping around me like a second blanket. I think it was the first time I meant it. The first time the words weren't just social convention but genuine gratitude. Genuine recognition of what they give me.What they are to me. For once, I wasn't performing gratitude, the polite smile, the automatic response. I felt it expanding in my chest, a warmth that pushed against old wounds, a truth I could no longer ignore.
Maybe that's a start. Maybe that's the first step toward something I can't quite name yet, something that feels dangerously close to healing. Something that feels like trust forming calluses over the raw places inside me. Something that feels like three distinct threads weaving together with mine, creating a pattern I never expected but can no longer imagine living without.
Chapter 2
Hero
It's just past five a.m. when I start my rounds.
The house is quiet, still blanketed in the early-morning haze that always makes the skyline outside the windows look like a painting. The blurred edges, soft shadows, pastel smudges of pink, purple and blue across the sky is the calm before the yawn and stretch of a city waking for the day.
I move through the halls like I always do, silent, methodical, precise. My footsteps make no sound against the hardwood; a habit ingrained from years of operations where noise meant failure. I check the windows, tracing my fingers along each latch, feeling for imperfections. I check the locks, testing each one with a gentle twist that wouldn't wake a light sleeper. I review the security panel, eyes scanning the green indicators that tell me all is well. Sweep for anything out of place, even though nothing ever is. A shadow where it shouldn't be. A scent that doesn't belong. Searching for the faintest trace of disturbance in a carefully arranged space.
It's muscle memory now. My routine. The same path every morning, the same careful attention to detail that my mother drilled into me before I could even tie my shoes. There is noroom for complacency, and regardless, my hyper vigilance isn't just a job. Not anymore. Not since Brookes. Not since I started measuring my success not in missions completed but in nights where his nightmares don't come, in mornings where his smile reaches his eyes. In the quiet moments when he doesn't flinch at sudden movements because he knows—he knows it's just me. Just us.
I pause outside Brookes’ room, my hand hovering near the door like a fool. He's asleep. I know that. I watched his body finally settle just after midnight, listened to his breathing even out, the tremble in it softening. I stayed longer than I should have, lingering just outside his door, counting his breaths until they became steady and deep. The shadows under his eyes had been darker today. Another rough day of flashbacks that left him hollow-eyed and jumpy.
He never asked me to stay until the other night. Talk about a mind fuck. I haven't stopped thinking about it since. Those words keep replaying in my head during security sweeps, during shift changes, during the quiet moments when I should be focused on potential threats instead of the curve of his jaw.
“Will you stay?”
